The ritualistic nature of airport checkins are hard enough to tolerate without having to do two in one morning. Turns out that our flight to Texas was cancelled due to obstructions on the runway, mainly one of these:



But, of course, we weren’t told this until AFTER we had entered the airport and been subjected to all the humiliation that a bored security team demands. With a little whelping and sniffling, we attracted the pity of staff and managed to get our flights rerouted to Los Angeles with the idea of driving to Austin from there.
I feel so god damn adventurous right now. A genuine all-American road trip! I’m half giddy about living the dream of Sam and Max Hit The Road; a game I grew up on.

Lesser men would sink in despair, clutch each other and weep passionately, while the corpse of their pre-paid travel itinerary lies on the operating table, slowly cooling and greasy. Not in the ranks of Beatnik Games, though, oh no. We keep pumping that chest cavity until the ribs crack.

How this vague stubbornness translated into us bombing across the state of Arizona in a Dodge SUV the size of a small guest room, I’m not quite sure. Add that to the fact that we’re working our way through bags of prime beef jerky and Camel Lights (I favour one, Robin the other) and we’ve somehow managed to assimilate ourselves into the stereotypical southern lifestyle.

I can completely understand how they fall in love with it; some of the landscapes around here are truly breath taking in ways that you would never find in England. I knew I was hooked by desert country when I looked out of the window and immediately yelled at Robin: “holy crap, did you see that rock? It was awesome”. Slightly anti-climatic, perhaps, but classier than when he giggled saucily and informed me that he’d just seen a cactus that looked like a penis.

As for the title of this post, it was the rather cheerful verdict of our electronic sat-nav lady about an hour ago. America is big. I think I can see Mexico.